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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26933398">A Rake's Progress</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charmides/pseuds/Charmides'>Charmides</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Notre-Dame de Paris | The Hunchback of Notre-Dame - Victor Hugo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Multi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 03:02:01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>12,846</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26933398</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charmides/pseuds/Charmides</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Captain Phœbus de Châteaupers, captain of the king’s unattached archers, will bed anything with two legs.  However, after setting his sights on the mysterious Claude Frollo, archdeacon of Josas, he may be in for a reckoning with Fate...</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Claude Frollo &amp; Quasimodo, Esméralda | Esmeralda &amp; Claude Frollo, Phoebus de Châteaupers/Claude Frollo, Phoebus de Châteaupers/Jehan Frollo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This story takes place a few weeks after Esmeralda's attempted execution (and subsequent rescue) and imagines what might have happened had Jehan and Phoebus met up during this emotionally-fraught time.</p><p>This is a light-hearted story with something of a crack pairing, but I have tried to be as faithful as possible to the original characters.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"I tell you, Mademoiselle de Gondelaurier is indisposed." </p><p>The housemaid regarded Phoebus from under her wimple with a steely, reproachful eye. She was a formidable old harridan, with a broad face and broad hips, and a broad, presumptuous smirk which seemed to taunt the young captain with the fact that she knew the secret goings-on of his betrothed's domain far better than he. </p><p>He gazed back at her undeterred – although, if truth be told, his wide, winning smile was beginning to wilt slightly at the edges, as was the hastily-bought nosegay he had picked up not three minutes earlier on the corner of the parvis. </p><p> "What do you mean?" he ventured – a worthy first riposte. "If my darling one is ill, I simply must see her –" </p><p> "She will see no-one," replied the housemaid, and her stony expression seemed to add, <em>Especially not you.</em> </p><p> The captain's smile hardened into something of a grimace. He had come prepared for at least a little resistance, but the old hag was putting up a vigorous defence. "Very well, Madame, but I am her fiancé…" </p><p> His adversary raised a sarcastic eyebrow. "Ah! So you had not forgotten!" </p><p> This remark gave Phoebus an ominous feeling. Something was definitely afoot. Still, he pressed on. </p><p> "Forgotten, my good lady?" he asked, with good-natured bemusement. "How could I have forgotten such a thing?" </p><p> The smirk turned into a malicious leer, and the maid surveyed the captain as a huntsman gazes on a particularly fat rabbit walking straight into his trap. She delivered the death blow. </p><p> "We were all asking ourselves the same question whilst you were cavorting around Paris with Egyptian sorceresses!" </p><p> Phoebus saw red. Instinctively, the hand that wasn't carrying the nosegay flew to the hilt of his sword, before he remembered with some disappointment that housemaids were generally unarmed and therefore considered off-limits to men of honour like himself. He contented himself with mere intimidation. </p><p> "Now listen here, you old bitch," he growled in a menacing tone, stepping forwards. "You have no business repeating this slanderous nonsense. I could have you dismissed for insolence." </p><p> The old woman laughed in his face. "Ha! I would like to see you try. I have been in service to Madame Aloyse since before you were old enough to wear hose! Do you think she would take a crass soldier's word above my own? For shame!" </p><p> Phoebus seethed. Skilled as he was with a sword, battles of tongues and wills often left him on the back foot. "Infernal harpy!" he hissed, but had no other retort. Sensing victory, an air of relaxed self-satisfaction settled over the housemaid's irritating face. </p><p> "I shall be sure to tell Mademoiselle that you passed by," she said. </p><p> "Thank you," said Phoebus, through gritted teeth. The old woman made a low, exaggerated curtsey, and slammed the heavy door in his face. </p><p> "<em>Corne et </em><em>tonnerre</em><em>!</em>" the captain swore, throwing the nosegay to the ground and stamping on it with a bespurred foot. "<em>Ventre-</em><em>dieu</em><em>!</em>" </p><p> "Good heavens, Captain!" sang a familiar, laughing voice at his shoulder. "Why is it that we never meet here but you are turning the air bluer than Our Lady's mantle with your oaths?" </p><p> Phoebus turned to meet the impish grin of his sometime drinking companion, and occasional catamite, Jehan Frollo du Moulin. At the sight of those merry blue eyes, and that tip-tilted nose, our worthy Jupiter at once felt the thunder-clouds in his mind begin to dissipate. The little scholar always seemed in such irrepressible high spirits, it was difficult to maintain a decent sense of ardent rage in his presence. </p><p> Jehan threw a plaintive glance at the trampled petals beneath the officer's boot. </p><p> "I see you have been in vicious combat with a bunch of marigolds. Surely, there is no peace for men of the sword! <em>Bella, </em><em>horrida</em><em>bella</em><em>!</em> Whatever did they do to you?" </p><p> "They didn't do a thing," sighed Phoebus unhappily. "That's the substance of my quarrel." He cast a black look towards the Gondelaurier house. "I had hoped to win over that crone which guards my cousin's door, but to no avail." Another heavy lamentation escaped his lips. "Fleur-de-Lys hasn't spoken to me these past three weeks. She doesn't leave the house. The maid says she is ill, but I know it is all on account of that wretched Similar." </p><p> Jehan looked up. "Similar?" he asked, cocking his head to one side curiously. </p><p> "The gypsy." </p><p> "Ah!" A mean-spirited jest seemed to rise to Jehan's rosy lips, but died there when he saw the genuine affliction writ on his friend's handsome countenance. Instead, he took Phoebus's arm in his and began to lead him along towards the Petit Pont. </p><p> "There, there," he said. "Let us be each other's consolation. I believe my brother is suffering from a similar malady. Come to think of it, it's also been three weeks since I last saw him alive. He refuses to receive me – me! The light of his life, the apple of his eye, the joy of his twilight years…" </p><p> Phoebus frowned. If he were to find fault in the boy, it would be that he always spoke such a constant patter of nonsense, it was hard to separate the few sensible grains of wheat from all the chaff. "Twilight years? How old is he, anyway, this brother of yours?" </p><p> "Oh, ancient," sighed Jehan, leaning his blond head on the captain's arm coquettishly. "I would well believe the rumours that I'm secretly his bastard, and not his brother, if he weren't such a confirmed virgin… My dear captain Phoebus, what say we drown our sorrows at the Pomme d'Eve?" </p><p> Phoebus shuddered. The name of that cursed wine shop would be forever entwined in his mind with the memory of that awful night of mischief and devilry, the spectre monk, the goat, the girl… It didn't bear thinking about any more. </p><p> "No," he said firmly. "Let's go to La Vieille Science." </p><p> "Very well," said Jehan. "<em>Varium</em><em> et </em><em>mutabile</em><em> semper Phoebus est. </em>But it's all the same to me. As long as you are paying, of course. I haven't a sou." </p><p> <br/>*** </p><p> Later that evening, in the Rue Jean-Pain-Mollet, filled with wine and certain other tokens of Captain Phoebus's appreciation, Jehan fell to pondering how he might set about gaining access to his brother's purse. For all the ardent enthusiasm in his more amorous moments, the golden-haired officer who snored peacefully beside him was not the most reliable of benefactors. </p><p>Still, he thought, gazing tenderly at his friend's sleeping form, there had to be some advantage to bedding a captain of the king’s unattached archers… </p><p>Sluggish though it was from the effects of the grape, his ready mind soon happened upon a bright idea. He sat bolt upright in the bed and shook Phoebus's shoulder. </p><p>"Not now, my dear Léonhilde," the captain murmured into his pillow, lost in pleasant reveries of conquests past. Jehan frowned. He accepted he would never take premier place in Phoebus's affections, but all the same, it was surely discourteous to dream of one lover before he had even left the bed of another. For this slight, he gave the captain a hard kick, ejecting him onto the hard wooden floorboards of his student's garret. </p><p> Phoebus rose with an indignant roar, reaching blindly for the sword in his scabbard, before realising he was stark naked. He blinked at Jehan stupidly through the gloom. </p><p> "Fiend! What did you do that for?" </p><p> The grin that flashed back through the darkness had something of a malicious edge. "You were snoring in the most barbarous way," the student said, archly, unwilling to let any suggestion of jealousy on his part caress the captain's already inflated ego. "Plus, I want to tell you something. Come here, and sit on the edge of the bed, if you will not lie in it quietly." </p><p> Phoebus did as he was directed with a rueful sigh, wishing that this particular Ganymede weren't always quite so full of energy; but gazing at the pretty blue eyes and the lithe, delectable form ensconced in a mantle of bed linen, he felt himself in a forgiving mood. He reached over and pulled the boy closer, burying his nose in that lovely mass of soft curls that crowned his head like so many rays of sunlight. There was something especially delightful, the captain thought, about short hair, compared to the cumbersome, heavy tresses that were the fashion with the ladies of the time. "This had better not be one of your midnight inspirations about Diogenes, or Plato, or some other of your damned heathen philosophers," he murmured, only half in jest. </p><p> "Alas, no, my gentle captain," said Jehan, leaning back with eyes half-closed, luxuriating under the captain's touch like a cat with its master. "What I have to say is rather more dull, but there's money in it for both of us." </p><p> "Splendid," said Phoebus, lowering his head to trace a string of kisses from Jehan's shoulder to his neck. "But first –" </p><p> "No, stop that!" said Jehan, swatting away the amorous hand that was stealing up his thigh. "You will only fall asleep again. Listen first, and then you can do as you please…" </p><p> "Very well!" came the begrudging reply. </p><p> <br/>*** </p><p> <br/>The next morning, Captain Phoebus de Châteaupers once again found himself on the Place du Parvis; this time, however, his mission was quite different. After casting an accusatory glance at the Gondelaurier house, he made his way stridently towards the cloisters of the cathedral. He had taken care to make himself seem as impressive as possible; the sword in his belt glinted in the sunlight, and a new set of golden spurs sparkled at his heel. He looked every inch the conquering Jupiter descending on the unsuspecting Saturn currently holed up in his cell. </p><p>Reaching the door of the archdeacon, he gave it a confident rap. </p><p> "Ho, Monsieur Archdeacon!" he called, in a resonant, authoritarian tone. "Dom Claude Frollo! Open, in the name of the King!" </p><p> No reply came from within. </p><p> The captain cleared his throat. </p><p> "I have news of your brother, Joannes de Molendino. It is a grave matter," he added, and paused expectantly, his ear against the door.</p><p>A rustle. </p><p>Phoebus sensed this tack was working. He lowered his voice to a sombre undertone. "Very grave, indeed… Will you admit me, Monseigneur?" </p><p>Eventually, he heard a weak voice issue forth from the other side of the door. </p><p>"A moment," it sighed, faintly. Phoebus heard a sort of creaking, and a shuffling step advance towards the threshold. He stood back from the door. Slowly, gingerly, it scraped back on its hinge to reveal a pale and ghostly visage, which stared at him for a moment with hollow and haunted eyes. <br/>Phoebus assumed his most gallant smile. "Good day," he said. "Captain Phoebus de Châteaupers, at your service!" </p><p>These words had a singular effect on his interlocutor. The eyes lost their dullness, flashing dark fire, and the priest made a quick movement to shut the door in the captain's face, and would have succeeded, had Phoebus not managed to slip his foot inside the doorway first. The heavy wooden door crashed with sudden, excruciating force against the captain's boot – which, alas, he had chosen more for its prettiness than its protective qualities. He howled. </p><p>"<em>Sang-Dieu! </em><em>Nombril</em><em> de </em><em>Belzébuth</em><em>!</em>" he cursed. </p><p>The priest's eyes widened with disapproval. "Such obscenity!" he exclaimed, through the crack left open by the sacrifice of Phoebus's dainty boot. </p><p>The captain's head was spinning, his composure in disarray. This was not exactly how he had envisaged their initial interview. However, he was determined not to fall at the first hurdle, and did his best to regain himself, looking down on the priest's bald head with a watering eye. </p><p>"My apologies, Monsieur," he said, wincing. "I was not expecting such violence from a man of God…" He attempted a grin, his eyes travelling downward. "We appear to have gotten off on the wrong foot…" </p><p>The archdeacon regarded him coldly. Phoebus tried to find traces in that sombre face of the other Frollo, his dear little Jehan, of the golden curls and forget-me-not eyes. Indeed, the underlying structure of the features before him were not dissimilar – there were the arresting, almost luminous eyes, and there was the haughty, stubborn chin, and a certain wilful expression about the mouth. But where Jehan was sunshine, this man was shadow; the sweetness of Jehan's countenance matched the gall of the archdeacon's; and where Jehan's merry glance spread good cheer, the priest seemed to infect his surroundings with intractable gloom. </p><p>Moreover, he was quite bald, except for a few tufts of scant hair which encircled the pale dome of his forehead like clouds around the moon. </p><p>"You have news of my brother?" </p><p>Phoebus nodded. "And I shall give it to you, if you would pray bestow a little Christian mercy on my poor boot." </p><p>The archdeacon was, deliberately or not, still leaning on the door and crushing the soldier's foot against the frame. Somewhat reluctantly, he released it, and Phoebus breathed a sigh of relief. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The archdeacon's cell, as could only be expected, was a rather plain, austere abode, with a rather stale smell lingering in the air. Captain Phoebus looked around curiously at the manuscripts, the mysterious glass phials full of strange, saffron-coloured powder, the pious inscriptions on the walls, and the one, dejected little window looking out onto the cathedral. Finally, his gaze came back to rest on the archdeacon himself.  </p>
<p>It was then that Phoebus noticed his unusual outfit; instead of the hood and cassock typical of the canons of Notre Dame, he wore what seemed to be a rather insubstantial night-gown with a surplice pulled over it for modesty. This combination offered a generous glimpse of bare neck and a gracefully turned ankle, all the more charming for the fact that they would usually have been covered by the voluminous folds of his priestly garb, and Phoebus found himself staring appreciatively. The archdeacon was taller and broader than his brother, but, as far as the captain could glean from what the thin material of the surplice revealed to him, no less well-made. And he was certainly not as ancient as Jehan had made him out to be. </p>
<p> Claude Frollo, perhaps a little disconcerted by the captain's direct gaze, folded his arms somewhat protectively in front of his chest and narrowed his eyes. </p>
<p> "Well?" he said. </p>
<p> "Hm?" said Phoebus, thoroughly distracted. </p>
<p> "What is this news, this grave matter you insisted on breaking down my door about?" </p>
<p> "Ah, yes, well," Phoebus began, stumbling over his words. The combination of the archdeacon's distracting attire and his keen, penetrating glance had a powerful effect on the fragile equilibrium of the noble soldier. "J- that is - your brother has run into some trouble." </p>
<p> "Has he? I am amazed," said the archdeacon, without changing his expression. </p>
<p> "Yes. He has been arrested, in fact." </p>
<p> The first ripple of emotion crossed Claude's sombre brow. "Arrested?" he repeated in a small voice, as if to himself, passing a hand over his eyes. Then he seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. "Ah! 'Tis well – or – not well – but at least not – I feared – " He broke off abruptly and looked up, as if suddenly remembering Phoebus's presence. "At any rate - I see. For what, may I ask?" </p>
<p> Phoebus, remembering Jehan's instructions, assumed a pitiful air. "Alas, good archdeacon! The boy was taken in the act of stealing a measly loaf of bread, to keep himself from starvation…" </p>
<p> The worthy brow creased further. "What? Bread? Has it come to this?!" The priest rubbed his temples. "Where have they taken him?" </p>
<p> "Uh – th-the Petit Chatelet, Monsieur. But never fear! You shall see him again, if you are minded to pay a small fine –" </p>
<p> "How much?" </p>
<p> "Twenty livres <em>tournois</em>." </p>
<p> The priest's eyes bulged. "But I don't have that kind of money!" he cried in dismay. </p>
<p> Phoebus twirled his moustache thoughtfully. "Bah, well – if that's true – I'm sure I could pull a few strings to bring the amount down a little. How much have you got?" </p>
<p> At this rather unusual offer, Claude stopped wringing his hands and looked at the captain with a keen, appraising eye. "You would be willing to do that, Captain? That is wonderfully charitable."   If there was a hint of bitterness in his tone, the captain did not detect it. He blushed a little at the compliment, and twirled his moustache all the more. </p>
<p> "Oh, well, you know… as the Good Book says…" He hesitated, searching for a quote.  “Live, laugh, love...” </p>
<p>The archdeacon raised a quizzical eyebrow, but decided against attempting to delve into Captain Phoebus’s confused spirituality.  “Or perhaps,” he said, slowly, “This eagerness to assist comes from the fact that you are friends with my brother. You know him, do you not?" </p>
<p>Phoebus froze. This had not been part of the plan, and at once he began to flounder. "Ah, no, of course not – that is – we have met – maybe – once – or twice – " </p>
<p>Claude fixed him with a steady, tranquil gaze. "He put you up to this, didn't he?" he asked, with an air of calm resignation. </p>
<p>The captain started indignantly. "No, i' faith!" he exclaimed. "God strike me down if I would utter such falsehoods to a priest! Your brother is in dire straits – wasting away in prison… He told me you were his only guardian and benefactor – his last hope in a hopeless situation…" </p>
<p>The priest said nothing, and only looked at Phoebus intently. The captain began to sweat; it seemed he could feel those eyes like two hot coals burning into his very soul. He wished, too late, that he hadn't uttered such an imprudent oath under the arches of Notre Dame herself. He cracked. </p>
<p>"Oh, all right! All right! <em>Bédieu</em><em>!</em> It's not true! Heaven have mercy!" he exclaimed. "<em>Nom d’un </em><em>pape</em><em>!</em> It is impossible to lie to you! You have eyes like thumbscrews…" </p>
<p>The corner of the archdeacon's mouth raised in a bitter, contemptible smile. </p>
<p>"Thank you for your honesty, Captain," he said, his voice dripping with disdain. The captain trembled. There was something darkly familiar about that dry, sepulchral tone which made him shiver. </p>
<p>"I – I'll see myself out," he stammered. </p>
<p>But the priest once again held up his hand. "Wait," he said. "If my brother has reached such a state of desperation that he has taken to concocting this kind of foolish scheme to put himself in funds, I should perhaps send him something…"  </p>
<p>With a sigh of resignation, he took a key from the nearby desk and retreated to a corner of the cell, where, over a pile of yellowing manuscripts, there was small ambry cut into in the wall, just above head-height. The archdeacon was obliged to stand on his chair to reach it, and as he did so, the hem of his surplice rode up a little, revealing more of the shapely calves beneath. </p>
<p>Phoebus was once again captivated, quickly forgetting the agitated confusion the archdeacon had thrown him into a minute earlier. He followed the line of the priest's leg upwards to the tantalising curve of his buttocks, just perceptible under the thin material. The captain felt a decidedly unholy stirring in his loins. There was something intimate about being alone in this way with a man committed to chastity.  Perhaps Jehan was right, and no-one had ever had the satisfaction of running a hand up those supple, willowy limbs, and hearing a sigh of pure pleasure escape from those stern lips, erstwhile given over to nothing but prayers and admonishments. </p>
<p>He thought of Jehan, and how lovely he looked with his face flushed and curls dishevelled, his expression contorted by paroxysms of pleasure.  He tried to imagine the archdeacon in a similar predicament.  Would he melt in the same way, when Phoebus kissed a particular spot behind his ear?  The idea brought a radiant glow to the captain’s face.   </p>
<p>Claude, descending now from the chair with a small pouch of coins, caught his eager, sparkling eye with an apprehensive glare.  What the devil was this fool staring at?  An uncomfortable notion came to Claude’s mind, that perhaps the man recognised him, even though his feeble mind had not quite made the leap to that fateful night at La Falourdel’s.  He lowered his eyes quickly, and busied himself counting out pieces of silver. </p>
<p>Phoebus, for his part, sensing the archdeacon’s discomfort, turned away to gaze out of the window.  Naturally, the priest was a target which required a little more finesse.  Nevertheless, he was encouraged by Claude’s ardent glances, which seemed to betray a hidden passion beneath the glacial exterior.  Such looks, in the captain’s experience, were only occasioned by the extremes of love or hatred, and what cause had the archdeacon to hate him?   </p>
<p>His eyes roamed up the formidable stone edifice of the cathedral beyond the small pane of glass in front of him.  At the very top of one of the towers, he saw something white moving, like a sort of billowing flag.  He squinted at it, and observed that it was a person – a girl, perhaps, in a white veil and robe.  At her feet, a little animal was jumping - a dog, perhaps or - </p>
<p>A goat. </p>
<p>He felt the grip of an icy hand encircle his heart, and he drew back from the window with a terrified cry. </p>
<p>“Similar!” </p>
<p>The archdeacon looked up.  “Similar to what?” </p>
<p>Phoebus looked around him wildly, his hair standing on end.  How could he explain what he had just seen?  The archdeacon would surely think him insane.  His desperate gaze fell upon one of the open books on the desk, and he gestured to it vaguely.  </p>
<p>“Oh - nothing,” he said.  “Just that.” </p>
<p>Irritatingly, this seemed to interest the archdeacon.  He moved a little closer to Phoebus.  “That?” he said, scrutinising the page carefully.  It contained a rather fantastical symbol, a triangle encased in a square surrounded by a hexagon.  “You’ve seen that before?  Where?” </p>
<p>Phoebus shrugged.  “Bah, I don’t know,” he said.   </p>
<p>The archdeacon looked a little crestfallen; clearly the thing meant something to him.  Phoebus thought for a moment, and, in spite of the shock he had just received, a nebulous idea began to form in his mind.  He was never so cunning as when the prospect of a fresh conquest presented itself. </p>
<p>He looked at the page again and said, “Perhaps it was at school, in the College d’Autun.  I could show you, if you’d like.” </p>
<p>The priest hesitated a moment; he seemed torn between conflicting possibilities.  Phoebus noticed his eyes float towards the window, and up the tower of Notre Dame.  He followed the other man’s gaze somewhat nervously; to his great relief, the billowing white figure had disappeared.  Perhaps it had just been a figment of his imagination, or the last vestiges of the previous evening’s intoxication leaving his mind.  Emboldened, he drew closer to his prey. </p>
<p>“How about this evening?” he said, in a low murmur, brushing the small of Claude’s back with a tentative hand.  Claude wheeled around, and Phoebus was delighted to observe a charming rush of colour steal across the priest’s pale cheeks. </p>
<p>The captain held up his hands with an expression of innocence.  “Excuse me,” he said. </p>
<p>There was a long pause, in which the archdeacon’s eyes flashed from the officer, to the book, to the window and back again, as if each of these things were pieces of a puzzle he was trying to put together in his mind.  Finally, they came to rest on Phoebus with an incalculable expression. </p>
<p>“Very well,” he said.  “I shall meet you there, after compline.” </p>
<p>Phoebus beamed.  “That’s settled then.  I look forward to it,” he said, pressing the archdeacon’s hand warmly.  Claude inclined his head graciously. </p>
<p>The soldier strode triumphantly towards the door, only to hear the archdeacon call out to him as he reached the threshold.  In the flush of victory, he had quite forgotten the little pouch of money which had been the sole occasion for his visit. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Claude Frollo passed the rest of the day in an agony of indecision.  He resumed his former position at the window, gazing up at the tower; but now the frenzied delirium of love was interspersed with thoughts of a yet more sinister nature. </p><p>Every so often, he would leap up from his chair and pace up and down in his cell, tearing at his hair. </p><p>“If she discovers that he is alive, what hope is there for me?” he muttered to himself. “That half-witted oaf is all she thinks about... And if they should find each other again...!” An excruciating thrill racked his body as he remembered their last meeting, the sweet totality of her surrender, her bare throat, the gentle swell of her lovely breasts, quivering with anticipation under the rapacious eye of that unworthy cretin... </p><p>He struck his forehead violently with his hand.  “Damnation...!”   Would these visions never cease to torment him?  </p><p>He went again to the casement, and pressed his burning brow against the cool glass, straining his eyes for another glimpse of his beloved Esmeralda.  He saw her there, on the gallery, in her pure white veil and novice’s robe, laying out crumbs for the birds who fluttered about her head like a host of tiny angels around a Madonna. </p><p>The torrid ache in his flesh, which he as yet dared not make a move to satisfy, subsided a little at this picture of feminine virtue.  He sighed.  “At any rate, <em> he </em> shall not have you...” </p><p>He paced the room again. </p><p>“Still,” he said to himself. “To strike a man down in the heat of the moment – a crime of passion, as it were – is one thing... pre-meditated murder is quite another...  On the other hand, the occasion has presented itself so perfectly... Surely, it is Fate!” </p><p>The cherished notion of destiny brought a certain amount of peace to the archdeacon’s turbulent psyche.  Thus it was that, as the ninefold chime of the evening devotion resounded mournfully across the twilight air, Claude Frollo could be seen striding with an agitated step through the darkening streets towards the Pont Saint-Michel. </p><p>*** </p><p>When he arrived at the Collège d’Autun, he saw that his victim was already waiting for him.  By the light of the lantern that he held, Claude could make out his dandyish outfit, noting with a contemptuous eye its embroidered collar and the fanciful tufts of lace at his wrists.  As the captain bowed his fair head in greeting, Claude detected a distinct hint of perfume.  He wondered whether he had subsequent plans to meet with some strumpet in the Val d’Amour.  <em> Alas,  </em> he thought to himself, as he fingered the poignard under his cloak.  <em> She will be waiting a long time! </em> </p><p>“Well, Captain Phoebus!” he said, with a sneer. “I thank you for indulging this little folly of mine at so late an hour.” </p><p>“The pleasure is all mine, I assure you,” said Phoebus, flashing another dazzling smile.  “Why, my schoolteachers would be proud if they could see me now, in the company of such a learned man!  I was never one for geometry, I can tell you... Lucide, Pygathoras, I could never see what the fuss was about... Anyway, if you will kindly follow me down this little alley, there is a side door which leads directly down to the crypt of Saint-André.  One only has to manoeuvre it in the right way, and it yields itself up like a lusty wench...! Or, ah, something else...” he trailed off, realising from Claude’s expression that this might not have been the happiest choice of words. </p><p>Indeed, they had reached a low, dark doorway in the side of the alley.  Winking at Claude, Phoebus gave a few deft jiggles to the handle; there was a click, and the door swung open with a tired groan, revealing narrow stone steps that spiralled down into pitch black. </p><p>“After you,” said Claude.  Phoebus thrust the lantern into the darkness with arm outstretched, and they descended together into the dank shadows.  The narrow staircase ended in an even narrower subterranean passage, which cut a perpendicular line between the rue de l’Hirondelle and the rue Saint-André-des-Arcs.  Claude could hear mice scurrying under their feet as they passed, and wondered to himself what cause the captain ever had to come down to such a place, as a schoolboy or otherwise. </p><p>The tapering passage suddenly opened out into a large, vaulted cellar.  The vaults were supported by a series of low stone columns, and between these columns, the flickering light of the lantern revealed a number of large stone sarcophagi.  Some of the tombs were modest, plain affairs; but others were covered in rich carvings and strange symbols, both Christian and otherwise. </p><p>Captain Phoebus turned to his companion with an eager expression.  “What do you think?” </p><p>“Most interesting!” said Claude.  This, in fact, was true.  He had spent much of his days at the University haunting the area around the Porte Saint-Jaques, and had never had much cause to venture into the precincts of Saint-André and the Clos de Laas.  He did not have any inkling that such a rich necropolis existed. </p><p>Moreover, he reflected, this would make disposing of the body a gratifyingly simple affair. </p><p>Phoebus seemed pleased at Claude’s approval.  “I knew you would like it,” he said.  “You seem like the sort of fellow who would be enthusiastic about tombs.  Of course, we only used to come down here to get drunk, but I always had the notion that it would be amusing to explore... with the right person, of course...” </p><p>He trailed off, but Claude did not notice the coy glance directed his way.  He was looking thoughtfully at the stonework on the far side of the crypt, endeavouring to find something suitable to distract the captain’s attention.  It would not be wise to engage in too many pleasantries, he thought.  That would only confuse matters. </p><p>“Bring your light over here, Captain,” he said.  “I wish to read the inscription on yonder wall.” </p><p>“Certainly,” said Phoebus.  He glided over to Claude’s side and held the lantern up to the wall. </p><p>“Perhaps,” said Claude, “you could go before me and read it out loud.  My eyes aren’t what they used to be.” </p><p>“As you wish,” said Phoebus.  “Although I warn you, my Latin isn’t what it used to be,” he added, with another jovial wink.  </p><p>He stepped in front of Claude and cleared his throat. </p><p>“Let’s see now.  Mam – er – no, that’s not quite – mane nobis, domine...” </p><p>As Phoebus read the epitaph in halting accents, interspersed with a good many oaths, Claude drew up behind him, gripping the handle of the poignard with a clammy hand.  This time, he must strike true – it was vital that the captain should not live to tell this particular tale.  He stared intently at the back of Phoebus’s handsome head, trying to calculate the most lethal angle.  One mistake, and he could end up strangled at the Grève, if not skewered on the end of the captain’s sword.  He edged closer, the blood pounding in his ears.  In the neck perhaps... or the temple... </p><p>“I know what you’re doing,” growled the captain, suddenly. </p><p>The blood froze in Claude’s veins, and he felt his heart dropping into the pit of his stomach.  In his fright, his usual clarity of thought deserted him; he thought himself discovered. </p><p>“Y- you do?” he stammered, cold sweat beading on his forehead. </p><p>Phoebus turned around, his eyes narrowed.  “Come on,” he said.  “We both know that you didn’t come here just to make grave rubbings...” </p><p>Claude swallowed.  His mouth was dry; he was unable to speak – unable to move, unable to do anything except grip the poignard in his hand and stare at Phoebus, mortified. </p><p>The captain continued, his expression growing more sinister with each word.  “You came to satisfy a deep, dark desire...  A criminal lust... The sort of desire one keeps hidden even from oneself!  You wrestled with your conscience before coming here tonight... I know, I read it in your eyes!  Yet, Monsieur Archdeacon... Claude... I am glad you came!” </p><p>Claude blinked.  “...Glad?” he managed to repeat, in a faint voice. </p><p>“Oh, yes!  Glad, for you will finally put an end to my suffering!  I hardly dared admit it to myself... but I want this, Claude... more than anything!”  Phoebus set the lamp down on a nearby sarcophagus and tugged at his moustache, a wild passion in his eyes.  “I have been in torment all day, longing for the sweet delirium of delight which I know lies hidden under your cloak...” </p><p>Claude stared at him in astonishment.  Who could have guessed that such morbid turbulence lurked beneath the captain’s foppish exterior?  And what a singular way to describe a poignard...  It seemed a little overwrought, even for a young man caught in the throes of a self-destructive fury.  </p><p>He stepped back, somewhat perturbed, but the soldier only followed, closing again the space between them, until Claude felt his back come up against a pillar. Then suddenly, Phoebus reached out and seized Claude’s hand; the guilty weight of the dagger slipped from his fingers, falling with a metallic clatter against the stone floor. </p><p>“What was that?” asked Phoebus, slipping an arm around Claude’s waist. </p><p>Claude was only vaguely aware of this being a rather odd question from a man who was confronting a would-be assassin.  The unexpected contact of the other man’s warm hand against his own icy fingers, and the gentle pressure of the arm encircling his waist, had an overwhelming effect on the archdeacon, scrambling his thoughts and rendering him momentarily dumb.  He gazed wordlessly into the shadows whither the poignard had fallen, and when he raised his head again, Phoebus’s face was very close to his own.  He felt an apprehensive flutter in the pit of his stomach.  The captain’s gold hair reflected the light of the lamp set behind him, giving him a sort of halo, and making him seem, at least for a moment, in the confused mind of the priest he embraced, like the incarnation of his divine namesake. </p><p>Phoebus leaned forward and pressed his lips against Claude’s. </p><p>At first, Claude was numb with surprise.  Darkness swirled before his eyes, and he heard nothing save for a faint ringing in his ears, such as he occasionally experienced after Quasimodo’s more impassioned performances. </p><p>Then, through the dim haze of his confusion, he felt a hand slip under his cassock.  The wanton incubus which he had been absent-mindedly nurturing for months – and indeed, indulging with the most gluttonous provender in the weeks spent pressed up against the window of his cell – was at once awakened. As such, the effect of this touch on Claude’s person was that of stray spark upon a pile of desiccated kindling left baking in the sun on a hot summer’s day.  Every nerve, every sinew, every inch of his flesh ignited in a white-hot conflagration.  It had been so long since anyone had touched him – even innocently... </p><p>Sensing little resistance, the captain’s mouth became more insistent and his wandering hand bolder with its caresses, as he savoured the throb of the priest’s heated desperation against his fingers.  A weak protest rose to Claude’s lips, but was easily devoured by the Phoebus’s ravenous kisses.   The twin demons of the captain’s lasciviousness and his own long pent-up desire proved impossible to fight; he capitulated almost immediately, abandoning himself to the blissful intoxication of sin. </p><p>It only took a few moments for Claude’s ecstasy to reach its shuddering conclusion.  He collapsed, panting and disoriented, against the captain’s embroidered doublet, as the final convulsive tremors racked his body.  Phoebus withdrew the offending hand and examined it, grinning. </p><p>“That’s a record, I think,” he said. </p><p>“Oh god,” said Claude. </p><p>Clarity was rapidly beginning to return to his frenzied psyche, and his rational mind looked with horror on what had just occurred.  He rose awkwardly, disentangling himself with some from Phoebus’s tenacious arms.  “I have to go.” </p><p>Phoebus caught hold of his wrist with a disappointed grimace.  “What, so soon?  Would you leave me unsatisfied?” </p><p>He pulled Claude against him again, so that the archdeacon could feel the swell of his unspent passion beneath his hose.  He felt a rush of unfamiliar emotion, a sort of terrified pleasure at the thought of being thus desired, and his cheeks burned with shame. </p><p>“Release me, I beg you,” he said, barely managing to utter more than a choked whisper.  “Why are you doing this to me?  I am not some roadside floozy, or a tavern wench – I am a priest – I am –”  </p><p>“You are adorable,” said Phoebus, kissing an exposed spot just behind Claude’s left ear, and causing his knees to buckle underneath him. </p><p>“Oh!  Holy heaven!” the priest gasped. </p><p>“If you will only tarry a moment, my dear archdeacon,” said Captain Phoebus, bearing him up in his strong arms, “That was just what I was about to show you.”</p>
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<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The walk back towards Notre Dame was one of the longest and strangest Dom Claude Frollo had ever experienced.   He felt numb, hardly believing what had just taken place, and everything around him – the low, dark houses, the clustered spires of the university, the glinting of the moonlight on the Seine - was tinged with a haze of dream-like unreality. </p><p>Captain Phoebus gallantly insisted on accompanying him, given that the cathedral was en route to his own temporary lodgings in the Rue des Bourdonnais.  Given the lateness of the hour, the streets were all but deserted; however, this did not stop Claude from looking furtively over his shoulder at regular intervals, anxious lest somebody should see him and the captain together.  Of course, there was nothing incriminating in merely walking side by side, but the archdeacon felt that he might betray himself at any moment with some irregular look or gesture.  Whatever trace of innocence his soul had retained in the virgin state of his body – the purity of his mind had been effaced long ago – had now vanished forever.  He felt changed somehow, and he was terrified that this transformation would issue forth from his face like the horns of Moses. </p><p>Phoebus, on the other hand, was entirely unperturbed.  He walked with a loose, careless step, his arms crossed behind his head.  Every so often he would glance at the archdeacon out of the corner of his eye and smile, no doubt recalling come particularly salacious vision of the last couple of hours to his mind.  The priest still intrigued him, despite the intimacy of their encounter, which so often served to dampen the intensity of his initial desire.  There was a frisson of unpredictability, a hint of lurking danger, an almost feral look in Claude’s smouldering eyes which drew the thrill-seeking soldier in like a moth to a flame.   </p><p>Who knew what was really going on inside that bald head of his?  Certainly, Phoebus did not, nor particularly did he care to find out.  The mystique was an essential part of the charm, as far as he was concerned.  He decided to voice his appreciation.</p><p>“I say, priest,” he said.  “You do have the gift of silence.  It gives one a sense of peace, as it were.  A man can hear himself think.  You’re nothing like that brother of yours, who never shuts up.” </p><p>A shadow passed across the archdeacon’s face.  He stopped and turned towards Phoebus, fixing him with a stern, searching eye.   </p><p>“Captain,” he said slowly.  “Please tell me you have not -” he hesitated - “<em>used </em> my brother for any shameful purpose?” </p><p>Phoebus held up his hands, feigning deep shock.  “Upon my soul!  What do you take me for?” </p><p>“An unabashed libertine of the worst kind.  I thought this much was obvious.” </p><p>The captain coloured a little at the priest’s matter-of-fact response.  He could hardly deny it.  “Be that as it may... no... of course not... Jehan and I are friends...  That is all, I swear.” </p><p>“I hope for your sake you are speaking the truth,” said Claude, resuming their passage.  Phoebus loosened his embroidered collar, and Claude fell once again into distracted silence.  He mistrusted the captain, and once such a dark thought had entered his mind, it was difficult to shake.  He made a mental note to speak to Jehan about the importance of chastity. </p><p>Not, he thought with a bitter pang, that he was in any particular position to give lectures. He smote his brow anxiously.  “Damnation!” </p><p>“Bless you,” said Phoebus. </p><p>They arrived at the Place du Parvis.  The captain turned to the priest, twirling his moustache. </p><p>“So, my delicious little hierophant.  When will I see you again?” </p><p>Claude reddened and looked away.  “If God is merciful, never.” </p><p>“Don’t be like that, my angel,” said Phoebus, snaking his arm once again around the archdeacon's waist and attempting to draw him close. </p><p>“Phoebus!” hissed Claude, scandalized.  “What on earth are you doing, somebody will see us -” </p><p>“There is no-one around,” murmured Phoebus, lowering his lips towards Claude’s, which showed signs of yielding in spite of their reproaches.  “I love the way you say my name,” he sighed.  “Say it once more before I leave you...” </p><p><em> Phoebus! </em> </p><p>He paused.  Somebody had called his name, but it wasn’t Claude.  It was a female voice, borne on the wind as if from far away.  He glanced up at the Gondelaurier house in trepidation, but all was dark and silent. </p><p><em> Phoebus! </em> </p><p>He looked back at the archdeacon, and saw that his pale face was raised towards the cathedral tower.  With a sudden pang of fright, the captain recalled the fateful apparition he had seen there earlier that morning.  He looked up, squinting in the darkness, but could see nothing; the moon was behind Notre Dame, making its façade nothing more than a black mass.  Still, the spectral voice called out to him... </p><p><em> Phoebus! </em> </p><p>The captain decided he had heard enough.  He released Claude unceremoniously and took to his heels towards the Pont Notre Dame, leaving the archdeacon standing alone on the parvis, staring up at the cathedral in the moonlight.  It seemed to stare back, full of reproach.  </p><p>*** </p><p>The following morning, Claude awoke feeling unusually refreshed.  The spring sun was shining, and the swallows were singing in the eaves.  He could not remember the last time he had slept so soundly, and he luxuriated in the pleasant feeling for a moment, arching his back happily against the straw mattress. </p><p>His contentment was short-lived, however.  As he shifted, a floral trace of the captain’s perfume and the dull ache in his backside brought the memory of the previous night’s depravity back to him with the crushing weight of a pile of falling bricks.  He resumed his habitual attitude of tortured gloom.  Obscene images of his own indiscretion paraded before his mind’s eye, causing his toes to curl with mortification.  He felt again the hard surface of stone against which his face had been pressed in humiliating attitude, Phoebus’s hot breath against the back of his neck, the sight of their fingers entwining in the flickering light of the lamp, their shadows writhing on the wall like demons in the inferno...   </p><p>These evocations filled him with horror, but underneath, he knew there lurked something even worse – a perverse kind of gratification.  He remembered the words of Saint Augustine with a shiver:<em> f</em><em>oeda </em><em>erat </em><em>malitia</em><em>, et </em><em>amavi </em><em>eam</em><em>.   </em> </p><p>He sat for a while in the bed, with his knees drawn up against his chest and his palms pressed against his eyeballs, as if trying to erase the thoughts from his mind.  He tried to tell himself that it had been a momentary lapse, an egregious error.  The geminate obsessions of his love for the gypsy girl and his hatred for the captain had become confused somehow in his mind.  Moreover, this man – this sweet-scented wolf in fine uniform – had surprised him in a moment of extreme weakness.  The warmth of his words and his body had flooded the lonely and dejected soul of the archdeacon like dazzling sunlight into the eyes of a long-forgotten prisoner, and blinded him. </p><p>Whilst he was engaged in this fruitless exercise, there came a gentle knock at the door of his cell.  He winced.  <em> Of all the time for visitors...  </em>At first, he tried to ignore it, throwing himself back into the bed and pulling the pillow over his head to muffle the noise.  However, the knock continued – soft, but insistent, until Claude could stand the sound no longer. </p><p>“Who is it?!” he cried, gnashing his teeth. </p><p>There was no answer.  The knocking, however, persevered. </p><p>Finally, Claude sprang from the bed, pulling his surplice over his head, and flung open the door in a rage. </p><p>“What -” he began, but stopped short when he came face to face with his unexpected visitor.  “Why, Quasimodo – it's you!” </p><p>For indeed it was.  The hunchbacked bellringer of Notre Dame stood apologetically on the threshold of his cell, regarding him with one large, anxious eye. </p><p><em> Did I wake you? </em> he signed, with a timid gesture. </p><p>Claude passed a hand over his eyes with a weary sigh.  He did not wish to aggrieve the poor boy.  <em> No.  What’s the matter? </em>  </p><p><em> Come</em>, was the reply. </p><p><em> Why? </em> </p><p><em> You’ll see.  Just come. </em> </p><p>Claude groaned, and motioned for Quasimodo to wait while he clothed himself properly.  It was not often that the bell ringer left the cathedral of his own accord, so his visit could not be on account of some small trifle.  He dressed quickly, rejoining Quasimodo outside, and together they crossed the cloister towards the church. </p><p>When they reached the staircase to the tower, Claude hesitated, their intended destination suddenly dawning on him.  His pulse quickened and his mouth grew dry - he could not help but thrill at the idea – had <em> she  </em>asked for him?  Joy of joys!  But what in heaven’s name was he supposed to do – or say?  He had nothing prepared – and then, oh!  His heart sank.  Last night!  She had called to Phoebus from the tower... She had seen him alive!  Perhaps she had seen... This last thought disturbed him greatly.  He tore frantically at his cassock.  Oh, that wicked, irresponsible Phoebus!  And foolish Claude, to have given him any quarter!  What on earth had he been thinking?  Mad – reckless – imbecile – –  </p><p>He dashed his fist repeatedly against his forehead, and until a particularly violent jolt reminded him of where he was.  He blinked rapidly, and looked up to see Quasimodo gazing at him with tender concern. </p><p><em> Don’t worry</em>, the bellringer signed, with an affectionate smile. </p><p><em> I’m not worried.  </em>Claude recovered himself with a haughty, dismissive gesture.  <em>Why should I be worried?  I don’t have anything to be worried about.</em> </p><p>Quasimodo looked at him with the sort of gentle patience he often reserved for his master’s more obtuse moments.  For all his genius, he could be prone to episodes of severe folly.   </p><p><em> Then come, </em>replied Quasimodo, taking Claude’s arm and leading him up the tower steps.  <em>I know you think she’s a witch  </em> (here he made a slightly exaggerated gesture indicating the evil eye).  <em>But you are wrong about her.  You’ll see! </em> </p><p><em> *** </em> </p><p>Quasimodo had been apprehensive at first, at the prospect of making such an introduction.  In fact, he had been rather glad that his master had kept himself locked away in the weeks after Esmeralda’s rescue; he had dreaded running into him on the stairs and having to explain himself.  But yesterday, the gypsy had awakened him in the middle of the night, hopping up and down with excitement about something in the square.  To his surprise, on peeping over the parapet, he had seen the tall, dark figure of his master, his white face illuminated by the moonlight, looking up at the cathedral as he sometimes did at strange hours of the day and night.  The relief he felt at seeing Claude out and about again, safe and well, was quickly replaced by another kind of unease. </p><p>Esmeralda had thrust an accusing finger towards him, her pretty features contorted into a grimace, a stream of unintelligible curses falling from her lips. </p><p>It struck Quasimodo that she may have recognised him from the night of the Feast of Fools, and he hung his head in shame to remember the evil that they had been about to perpetrate on the sweet girl in their ignorance.  He shook his head sadly. </p><p>“My master is a good man,” he explained.  “But mistaken.  He took your tricks for sorcery and was afraid that you had arrived in the city to cause mischief.  You must forgive him; he did not know you, as I know you now.” </p><p>She looked at him in astonishment, her eyes two large, dark wells in her pale face.  “Your master?” she repeated, slowly. </p><p>Quasimodo nodded.  “Yes.  He adopted me when I was just a child.  Nobody else wanted me... Ah, well, I think you can see why!” he added with a sigh.  “I owe him my entire life.  Do you understand?  He is a good man!  And a very learned one, although, it seems, he doesn’t know much about teaching goats to beat on tambourines.  But perhaps that can be excused.”  He smiled, forgetting for a brief moment how ugly he was, and how his lop-sided grin might have frightened her. </p><p>The gypsy’s mind, however, was on other things.  Her face was full of confusion, as though she could hardly believe what she was hearing.  She opened her mouth as if to say something, but stopped short, shaking her curly head in bewilderment.  She looked once again into the square, but this time Claude had disappeared.  The bellringer continued: </p><p>“I know he may seem a little odd at first, but when you get to know him, he is the kindest, most gentle of souls... Like you, in fact."   </p><p>This comparison was pleasing to Quasimodo, and the idea that they should come to know one another began to ingratiate itself in his mind.  His smile grew broader, and his eye twinkled with excitement.   </p><p>“Would you like to meet him?” </p><p>At first, the gypsy seemed alarmed at his proposal, but a change quickly passed over her features, and she looked at Quasimodo for a moment thoughtfully. </p><p>Then she nodded her head.  “Yes,” she said, slowly and carefully, allowing Quasimodo to read her lips.  “Bring him here.” </p>
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<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
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    <p>She was as beautiful as ever.  She sat on a stool with her back to the window, the morning light streaming through her black curls, her head thrown back, her eyes narrowed, the little goat lying meekly at her feet.  So regal was her attitude that the stool might have been a throne, and the goat one of the tame lions of the Queen of Sheba herself. </p><p>She was enthralling – and yet, her mere presence did not set Claude’s heart racing or his blood boiling as it had just yesterday.  It was strange.  He felt able to look at her directly – almost calmly – and so doing it was like seeing her for the first time, noticing all the small details his frenzied eye had previously passed over in a blur.  She had a smattering of freckles on her nose, and the slightest, softest, most utterly charming hint of downy hair above her upper lip.   </p><p>She was also very young. </p><p>He had always known this, he supposed, somewhere underneath the mania of his desire, but for some reason he had never confronted himself with the reality of it.  He supposed her extreme youth and vitality a sort of type, an illusion, perfectly designed to lead him astray.  But now, here before him was no illusion.  It was a real girl, with brown flesh and warm blood.  He could even see through the petty deception of her courage, and the self-assured dignity with which she regarded him.  He saw the defensive curve of her shoulders, the tension in her hands and the rigid set of her mouth; she was afraid of him still.  Of course she was.  The guilt of it made him want to sink through the floor. </p><p>They stared at each other for a while in silence, and Quasimodo’s questioning eye travelled from one to the other in anticipation. </p><p>Esmeralda was the first to speak. </p><p>“You,” she said, quietly.  “I thought it was you...” A tremor of disgust passed over her body as she recalled their last meeting, in the horrible, dark dungeon – the touch of his icy hand, the foul blood on his fingers, and the terrible look on his hollow, livid face. </p><p>He appeared somewhat changed.  It was definitely the infernal priest – about that there could be no mistake, so imprinted were those awful features on her unhappy memory – but here, squinting in the daylight of her sanctuary cell, he was no longer the eldritch apparition of her nightmares; in fact, he seemed more or less ordinary.  There was the same furrowed brow and gloomy expression, but his eyes no longer burned into her skin like hot coals.  He simply looked at her, sadly – and, one might even have said, nervously. </p><p>She did not care to dwell on what could have caused such a transformation.  There were other more pressing matters at hand.  She cleared her throat and settled herself a little better on the stool.   </p><p>“My Phoebus is alive.”  She spoke in the slow, overly-measured tones of someone trying their best not to betray a strong emotion. </p><p>“So it would seem,” said Claude, a little coldly.  Hearing her utter the captain’s name still filled him with a degree of bitterness, only now it was mingled with a certain unspeakable shame. </p><p>“Sir, I know it, and you do too.  You were with him,” she said, a hint of excitement already threatening to sabotage her calm and dignified air.  “I saw you.” </p><p>“Ah!  That’s certainly possible,” murmured Claude, as if to himself. But what exactly had she seen?  He burned to know, while remaining anxious not to reveal himself prematurely.  It had been dark after all; perhaps there was nothing to worry about.</p><p>His noncommittal response seemed to irritate the gypsy; a pout threatened to form on her lower lip. </p><p>“Are you a friend of his?” she asked, her voice gradually rising.  “How, I wonder?” </p><p>Claude could feel the heat of his embarrassment stealing up his neck and into his face.  “I...” he began, rather unsure of how he ought to finish; fortunately for him Esmeralda proved too agitated to wait for his response. </p><p>“Does he know what you <em>did </em>?!” she cried, interrupting him, and with this last word, she struck her lap with a balled fist.  This startled the little goat, which punctuated the accusation with an indignant bleat.   </p><p>Claude lowered his eyes. </p><p>“Ha!” Esmeralda threw her pretty head back with a bitter laugh.  “Of course not!  He still believes it was I who did that awful deed - I, Esmeralda, who loves him more than anything in the world, who wouldn’t harm a hair of his sweet head -” She let out an anguished sob.  “He flies from me – he won’t look at me!  And you, a murderer – he – he -” She shook her head, unable to finish the sentence, and tears filled her dark eyes. </p><p>Quasimodo shifted uncomfortably.  The meeting was not unfolding as he imagined it would. There had been an undercurrent of tension the moment they had laid eyes on each other – and not the tension one might expect could result from a night of misunderstanding, months ago.  There was something deeper at work – it would be obvious to anybody observing the scene, whether they could hear their words or not, that they <em> knew </em> each other.  And now Esmeralda was weeping, and his master was staring at her, a with an odd, stricken look Quasimodo had never seen before.   </p><p>He tugged gently at Claude’s sleeve.  <em> What’s going on? </em> </p><p><em> You stay out of this, </em> Claude signed, with a curt, irritated expression.  Quasimodo fell back obediently, but continued to regard the pair anxiously.   </p><p>Claude turned back to Esmeralda, and took a deep breath. </p><p>“Listen to me,” he said, sternly.  “It is for the best -” </p><p>“No!” cried Esmeralda, cutting him off with a violent movement of her hand.  She had had enough of his poisonous words, and here under the watchful eye of the hunchback she felt bold.  “No, it’s not!  We should have been happy.  You ruined everything!”  She leapt to her feet, her eyes flashing, her cheeks rosy with passion.  “You <em>keep </em>ruining everything!  And to think, you said you cared for me...” </p><p>“I do –” protested Claude. </p><p>“Then tell the truth!” Esmeralda screamed.  Her words hung between them like a note struck on a bell.  “You have to tell him the truth!  In fact, that is what I wanted to ask you...” Her voice softened, and she advanced towards him, trembling.  “Monsieur, if there is any love or compassion for me in that black heart of yours, you would right this wrong!  Clear my name!  Tell Phoebus that I love him – bring him here –”  </p><p>“And go to the gallows myself?” </p><p>“It’s what you <em> deserve </em>!” she snarled. </p><p>Claude gritted his teeth.  She looked so lovely inflamed with anger, but he would be damned before he did any such thing.  It was not merely a matter of self-preservation, he told himself, but for the girl’s own good.  Phoebus was more depraved than either of them could have imagined; he was possessed of the Prince of Lechery himself.  He could not in good conscience deliver this innocent girl into his clutches. </p><p>Plus, he wanted her for himself.  </p><p>“I am afraid, Esmeralda,” he said, icily, “that I cannot grant your request.” </p><p>She blinked.  It was strange, somehow, to hear the priest say her name.  She supposed he must have known it, given how closely he had followed her, and yet she did not think he had ever used it.  He said it in such a careful way, she almost found it pleasing, in spite of everything.  Almost. </p><p>She glowered at him.  “Well then,” she said, retreating to her stool, a bitter smile forming on her lips.  “Just as I thought.  But I will find another way to reach him.”  She waved her hand imperiously.  “It seems there is nothing more to say.  You may go.” </p><p>Such was the authority in her voice and gesture, that Claude found himself turning to descend the steps.  Then he suddenly remembered who and where he was. </p><p>“Just a minute,” he said, with irritation.  “I am the archdeacon of this cathedral.  I may come and go as I please.” </p><p>“Very well,” said Esmeralda, turning to face the window and leaning her dark head on her elbow.  “Do what you want, I don’t care.” </p><p>“Thank you, I will,” said Claude.  He hovered undecidedly under the vault of the staircase, his arms folded and his mouth a grim line.  Quasimodo looked at him quizzically. </p><p><em> Stay out of this, </em> Claude signed again.  He waited there for another couple of minutes, studiously avoiding Quasimodo’s gaze and examining one of the corbels as intently as if his life depended on it.  He would not be ordered around.   </p><p>He wished to say something to Esmeralda, to explain himself; but his mind was a blank, punctuated only by occasional images of Captain Phoebus in unmentionable attitude.  He shook his head exasperatedly.  Then a new idea occurred to him.  Perhaps if she were to learn of his true nature, it would disabuse her of this childish infatuation... But how was this to be accomplished?  Phoebus could be charm itself when it suited him, something he now knew all too well.  Claude would have to play a much more subtle game than he had done heretofore. He had some planning to do.</p><p>He cleared his throat loudly and announced that he was going down to prepare for the mass.   </p><p>Esmeralda did not stir.  She remained at her post at the window, motionless as one of the statues which adorned the gallery below.  However, as the archdeacon began to descend, he heard her utter a single word, in a low, but distinct, voice. </p><p>“Slut.” </p><p>Claude froze mid-step, and his hand contracted against the stone wall.  He turned around, his face pale and incredulous. </p><p>“Excuse me?” </p><p>She looked over her shoulder, her thick, dark lashes half-shielding her eyes.  “You heard what I said.” </p><p>Claude was beside himself.  The blood returned to his face in an irregular fashion, causing large purplish blotches to appear on his skin.  A vein pulsed hard in his temple and his vision began to swim a little.</p><p>“How <em> dare </em> you -” he began, in a trembling voice. </p><p>“How dare <em> you </em>!” said Esmeralda, wheeling around again, and causing the goat to let out another agitated bleat.  “I saw what you did down in the square.  Let me tell you something.  Phoebus is mine – he loves me – he never loved anyone but me – I am the angel of his life -” </p><p>“You silly little fool!” spat the priest.  “Are you really so naïve?  He says that to everyone -” </p><p>“Lies!” cried Esmeralda.  “All you do is lie!  You tricked my Phoebus – just like you tricked everyone into thinking I hurt him - and now I know why!  It was so that you could have him for yourself!  Slut!  Whore!  Seducer!  Cursed creature of the night!” </p><p>“Silence!” bellowed Claude.  “Cease this nonsensical jabbering!  I am innocent, I tell you.  The only slut in this sordid little story is your precious Captain Phoebus -” </p><p>“Liar!” roared Esmeralda, launching herself towards the priest with the rage and fury of a wounded tigress.  She slashed at his face with her nails, drawing blood, and seized hold of the greying hair at his temples and for a moment Claude feared that she would dash his brains out on the stone wall.  He grabbed wildly at her arms to prise them away; but then her knee came up hard between his legs, and he sank down, his life flashing before his eyes. </p><p>"I'll kill you!"</p><p>He felt her weight above him, her strong legs bestride him pinning him down, as her fists collided with his face.  The as-yet badly healed wound in his side began to chafe painfully against his cassock.  And yet, a stray thought wandered through the fog of his affliction, that this was the closest they had ever been.  Her body was pressed against his, her fingers in his hair... A guttural moan escaped his lips, though whether it was one of pain or pleasure not even Claude could have said at that precise instant. </p><p>Fortunately or unfortunately for Claude, their moment of congress was brief.  He felt her being pulled from on top of him; Quasimodo had come to the rescue, and he held the little gypsy, kicking and flailing, over his head in his large but gentle hands.  He bore her carefully back towards her cell, impervious to the blows which rained down on him from above, and deposited her back inside, shutting the door quickly and barring it with his body.  Thus imprisoned, Esmeralda continued to beat against the wood with her fists and yell insults at Claude through the door, while the little goat seemed to add her own list of grievances to those of her mistress.</p><p>Quasimodo threw a terror-stricken glance at the crumpled black heap gasping on the floor in front of him. </p><p>“I saw that going differently in my head,” he said, with an air of quiet penitence.  “Please don't be angry with me, master!” </p>
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
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    <p>A hand emerged from the cassock on the floor, dismissing Quasimodo’s grovelling apologies, and making it clear that the bellringer’s presence was no longer required.  </p><p>Quasimodo hesitated.  Under normal circumstances, he would not need to be told twice; his master’s icy rages were rarely pleasant to endure. But something in Claude’s expression had troubled him, and recalled his thoughts to the night the archdeacon had commanded him to carry Esmeralda away.  Then, his master had been deeply insistent about his concern for public morality, but now Quasimodo could not help think that there was some ulterior connection between the gypsy and the priest that had been hidden from him, and he felt uneasy at the thought of leaving the two alone together.   </p><p>He gazed mournfully at the black puddle at his feet, stricken with indecision.</p><p>Slowly, a high bald forehead and two glittering eyes emerged from the dark folds, and glowered resentfully at Quasimodo, strongly reminding him of a large black cat on whose tail he had clumsily trodden in the cloister.  Claude was not accustomed to having his orders ignored.</p><p>Quasimodo, however, remained rooted to the spot.  Tentatively, his gestures as small and subtle as he could make them, he motioned from Claude to the vaulted staircase.  <em>You should go, too.</em></p><p>Claude drew himself up to his full height, his gaze still fixed on Quasimodo.  The hunchback trembled.  </p><p><em>I mean... It is only out of concern for you… She wishes you harm… I want you to be safe…</em>  His hands fumbled over themselves nervously as he tried to formulate his excuses.</p><p>The priest advanced towards him.  As he drew closer, Quasimodo felt as if he himself was shrinking, and his resolve began to crumble within him.  He cowered as the priest loomed over him; at that moment, Claude could have only given the sign, and he would have moved.</p><p>But there was no sign.  Quasimodo felt the cold hands of his master touch his face, forcing him to meet his eyes.  They bored into him, as if searching him for some clue, or some trace of gypsy enchantment.</p><p>“She was kind to me, master,” Quasimodo managed to say, with hoarse desperation.  “I want you <em> both</em> to be safe…”</p><p>At this, the knitted brows relaxed slightly.  Then the archdeacon shook his head, a slight, bitter smile twisting his lips, and, patting the hunchback’s shock of red hair as a half-hearted <em> signum pacis</em>, turned towards the staircase.</p><p>Quasimodo let out a sigh of relief.  One down, he thought.  Now the other…</p><p>The vibrations against the wooden door at his back had subsided; this was a good sign.  He slowly eased the cell door open and peeped inside.  Esmeralda had retreated to her straw mat with the little goat in her arms.  She stroked its white head broodingly, the explosive fire which had flashed in her dark eyes reduced now to mere embers, and did not acknowledge Quasimodo’s entry.  Perhaps that was for the best, the bellringer thought, as he could not begin to think how to comfort her.  At some point, perhaps he would try to glean a little more information from one or the other, but now was not the time.  He permitted himself to gaze on her loveliness for a few moments, before gently closing the door again and wiping the perspiration from his brow.  </p><p>He leapt onto the balustrade and hoisted himself up onto one of the flying buttresses, his mind in turmoil.  He could think of only one way to calm his racing thoughts.  He scampered across the roof towards his neglected companions in the bell tower.  Soon, he felt the cool bronze embrace of Big Marie, treating the citizens of Paris to an impromptu symphony of chimes quite out of the ordinary for 11 o’clock on a Wednesday <em> in feria. </em></p><p>***</p><p>Across the Seine, the peal of the bells was enough to drag a groggy Captain Phoebus from his already fitful slumber.  Whereas to the restless and unhappy soul of Dom Claude the previous night’s exertions had brought an unexpected peace, in Phoebus they had inspired a strange conflict.  His dreams tossed him constantly from the heavenly ecstasy he had known in the arms of the priest, to the pale vision of hell that beckoned to him from atop his church.  Love and terror make strange bedfellows, and they are certainly not conducive to a good night’s sleep. </p><p>He awoke with his body covered in cold sweat and a curse on his lips.</p><p>“Infernal bells!” he muttered; but in truth, he was grateful to have been pulled from the arms of those strange phantoms.  He put his head out of the window, feeling the cool morning air on his face and listened for a moment.  It had been some time since he had heard the bells ring so beautifully, and he wondered if it was not some feast day.  </p><p>This immediately turned his thoughts to more pleasant considerations.  He smiled, imagining that a certain archdeacon was even now celebrating mass at the high altar of Notre Dame, raising the sacred vessels in those delicate fingers which just last night had grasped something altogether profane… How amusing it would be to surprise him there, and see that delightful blush steal across his cheeks, those lovely eyes downcast lest they reveal any trace of the illicit desire which burned within… His mind filled with such stimulating images, the captain withdrew his head from the window and began to dress himself, eager with anticipation.  </p><p>He was halfway into his doublet, however, when another less agreeable thought struck him.  It was always at the cathedral where he saw that wretched gypsy.  He saw once again the deathly arms stretched towards him, the white shroud fluttering on some unholy breeze.  Her wicked spirit seemed to haunt the place.</p><p>Captain Phoebus had never been the credulous sort who fancied seeing ghosts and ghouls in every dark alleyway.  However, the fact of having been recently accosted by one (in precisely such an alleyway), and the sequence of horrible events which ensued, had contributed somewhat to changing his outlook.  He was starting to believe there was some malevolent force determined to drag him into the underworld; although why they had chosen to persecute him, of all people, was quite impossible to say.</p><p>Of course, he mused, he wasn’t a saint.  But there were men in this world much worse than he… weren’t there?  He called again to his mind’s eye his seduction of the priest, but instead of the warm, sensual thrill of skin against skin, he remembered the sad, haunted look in the other man’s eyes as they had returned together towards the church.  A sense of uncertainty began to bloom in his breast.  Unprompted, his thoughts wandered to the gypsy girl’s chaste murmurings over her strange little amulet, and from there countless other conquests, male and female, to whose protestations of virtue he had given short shrift.  For the first time in his life, there was a twinge of guilt mingled with the sense of satisfaction and accomplishment he usually felt when going over his <em> catalogue</em>.   </p><p>He chewed his lip pensively.  While it certainly wasn’t purely his own fault he was being pursued by demons, he thought it at least prudent to extend a hand of friendship towards those who may ward them off.</p><p>Wishing to avoid Notre Dame, he headed westwards towards the church and cemetery of the Holy Innocents, where he hoped some religious type might be prevailed upon to say a prayer for his soul.  At that time there were no less than two recluse cells in that place, the first between the fountain and the church, and the second on the opposite side of the cemetery.</p><p>He passed through the market of Les Halles to purchase a suitable offering and, not wishing to spare expense and receive less-than-fervent prayers as a result, chose a rather elaborate confection of spiced biscuits.  Thus furnished, he made his way towards that city of the dead and-living dead which served as a constant reminder to the citizens of Paris of their own mortality.  He kept his head down and his hat pulled over his eyes as he went; though not exactly ashamed of this uncharacteristically pious endeavour, he was less than enthusiastic that news of it might somehow reach his companions at Queue-en-Brie.</p><p>His hopes for anonymity were dashed, however, when entering through the cemetery gates, he heard a familiar singsong voice call his name, and looked up to see the laughing face of Jehan Frollo.</p><p>“Captain Phoebus!  We must stop meeting like this,” he trilled gleefully, dropping his voice to a low murmur as he sidled up to the captain.  “People will begin to suspect something…”  His eyes lit up as he spied what the captain carried in his arms.  “O, <em> exsultate justi! </em>  Biscuits!”</p><p>He tried to reach a hand into the bag to take one, but Phoebus batted it away.</p><p>“Lay off, you little scavenger.  I have brought this for the holy woman in yonder cell.”</p><p>Jehan’s eyes widened, and his eyebrows almost disappeared into his blonde curls as he regarded the captain with astonishment for a moment.  Then, as was his wont, he burst into peals of laughter.</p><p>“You...!  The recluse...!” he cried, clapping his hands with amusement.  “Oh, don’t tell me that Captain Phoebus has finally found religion!  Stop up the fountains and toll the bell!  ‘Tis a sad day for the beauties of Paris, who mourn the passing of a great talent!  Farewell to gallantry!  Alas, no more will you go a-twirling, valiant moustache!  Virgins, the streets are safe once again -”</p><p>“All right, all right!” hissed Phoebus, irritated.  “Keep your voice down, will you?  I say, it’s rich of you to scoff at me when you’re evidently here on some foolish errand of your own.  I might ask what you are doing creeping around this godforsaken place -”</p><p>Jehan’s face became suddenly solemn, like a cloud passing over the sun, and for a moment he bore a striking resemblance to his older brother.</p><p>“What an insensitive remark, Captain,” said Jehan, in the same gloomy tones as the other Frollo.  “I came to visit my poor parents, who are buried here in this cemetery.</p><p>Phoebus felt a pang of embarrassment.  “Oh!” he said, scratching the back of his neck nervously.  “I didn’t mean - that is to say - I quite forgot that you -”</p><p>Jehan giggled.  The sun came out again, and the archdeacon of Josas vanished as suddenly as he had appeared.</p><p>“I’m only pulling your leg,” he said, gaily.  “Give me a biscuit and all will be forgiven.”  </p><p>Phoebus relented with a sigh.</p><p>“The truth is,” said Jehan, between happy munches, “I don’t remember a thing about the poor brutes.  They never did a thing for me other than dying and leaving me alone with Claude, which I’m not sure I shall ever forgive them for…” He paused for a moment, thoughtfully.  “I say, this conversion of yours - it isn’t <em> his </em> doing, is it?”</p><p>“Eh?” said Phoebus, absently.</p><p>“I thought you seemed different yesterday.  A sort of wistful look - I thought it was because of a girl, but perhaps it was the beatitude of the Holy Spirit.  You didn’t let old Claude lecture you about the seven virtues, did you?”</p><p>“No, no,” said Phoebus, evasively.  The line of questioning was becoming slightly uncomfortable.  “Nothing like that.”</p><p>“‘<em>Nothing like that,</em> ’” repeated Jehan, pensively, taking another biscuit.  “Then he said <em> something</em>.  And I am supposed to believe that by pure coincidence you arrive here the very next morning to lay offerings at the little windows of the Holy Innocents!  No, this will not do.”  </p><p>He took Phoebus by the arm and assumed a serious expression.  </p><p>“There is something you ought to know about my brother, Captain.  He is not like you, or I - he has a very sad affliction.  Just as the blind lack the power of sight, and the deaf the faculty of hearing, my brother - alas!  My brother was born without the ability to have fun.  It is a completely alien concept to him.</p><p>“He himself suffers the most for it, of course - but in his envy he has made it his mission to stop everyone else from having it too.  He wants nothing more than to expunge gaiety from the world.  We must not allow him to prevail!  O, Captain Phoebus!  Say you will not abandon me, to fight this crusade for merriment alone!”</p><p>Phoebus couldn’t help laughing at the little scholar’s theatrical oration, as he allowed himself to be led back through the cemetery gates.  He thought Jehan had a point somewhere in all the senseless chatter.  The archdeacon clearly lived out a miserable existence in that cold little monk’s cell of his; surely the captain had done some good to inject it with a little jollification.  </p><p>Plus, he knew what Jehan did not; that the archdeacon was not so incapable of joy as he first seemed.  What voluptuousness he had discovered under the drab cassock!  How, as for Pygmalion, the cold statue had come to life in his arms!  Surely God had intended a flower such as that to be plucked and enjoyed, rather than to wither and die alone on the stem.</p><p>He felt his weak resolve slipping away; the biscuits by now were all but gone. </p><p>“Very well, Field Marshal Frollo,” he chuckled, hand on the hilt of his sword.  “Where then is the next battle to be pitched? Perhaps rematch at Eve’s Apple - with a debrief in Rue Jean-Pain-Mollet?”</p><p>He gave Jehan’s backside a surreptitious squeeze.  If he couldn’t have Claude again at this present time, surely this was the next best thing.</p>
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